Will You Follow?
by wordonawing
Summary: AU Cherik. "I will live seven times, and I will look for you and love you in each life. Will you follow?"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey again, guys. How're you all doing? Okay, so this is my first story that actually, you know, has a plot and stuff. Hopefully you'll like it *****crosses fingers*******

**Big shout-out to Dreamcreator! Thank you so much, my friend. I would've never had the guts to put this up if not for you. Thanks for listening :) You're the best.**

**Summary: One fateful day on the battlefields of Belgium, Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier meet for the first time. But is it really the first? Erik's sure they've never met before. So why does he feel like he's known Charles all his life? And why does Charles look at him like he's feeling the same thing?**

**Seven times. Seven lives. Seven chances to get it right. **

**Wow, that was a crappy summary. Basically, it's a Cherik version of this amazing book by Marcus Sedgwick called **_**Midwinterblood**_**. Read it, it's brilliant.**

**By the way, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not German. I do learn it, but I'm really not very good, so I had to get my lyrics from Google. Very sorry if it's wrong! *****runs and hides***

"_I will live seven times, and I will look for you and love you in each life. Will you follow?"_

**Part 1**

**The Soldiers**

**Belgium, somewhere near Ypr****è****s**

**24****th**** December, 1914**

**Chapter 1**

"Hey, look, Xavier. They're putting up a Christmas tree!"

"That's wonderful, Wilson, but I'm trying to sleep. It's Christmas Eve, or didn't you know?"

"Of course I knew, nitwit. Though the carols were a bit of a giveaway. SILENT NIGHT, HOOOO-LEEE NIGHT!"

"Oh, God."

"It's only ten minutes to midnight, Charlie-boy! Aren't you at least going to stay up til then? See Christmas Day in?"

"To be honest, Wilson, I'm very, very tired, and this might be the only bit of peace and quiet we get for a long time."

"Yeah, it's a truce, so you should be celebrating, not snoozing!"

"I quite enjoy "snoozing", to be honest."

"And I quite enjoy celebrating."

"Well, each to his own, I suppose. Nighty-night."

"ALL IS CALM, ALL IS BRIIIIIIIGHT – "

"Oh, dear Lord. If you keep doing that I'm going to shoot you. Everyone will believe me when I tell them I thought you were a rat. You look enough like one."

"Excuse me!"

"You're excused. Now, if you'll kindly excuse _me_, I'm going to take a walk. No point trying to sleep with you shrieking like a strangled cat. I swear, you're going to force the Germans to break the truce if you carry on like that."

"You're just jealous of my lovely singing voice. I wouldn't be surprised if the Kaiser himself came down here just to listen."

"Of course he would, Wilson. Of course. Bye."

"Bye. Be careful not to get shot!"

"It will be extremely difficult, what with all the gunfire tonight. Back in a quarter of an hour."

"_Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, alles schl__ä__ft, einsam wacht…"_

"Erik?"

"Uh huh?"

"Shut up."

"Why? It's Christmas Eve, _die Englische _have stopped bombing us, and we them, it's a freezingly beautiful night - why shouldn't I sing carols? They're doing it!"

"Just because they can survive on a grand total of zero hours of sleep a night doesn't mean I can."

"_N__ü__r das traute hoch heilige Paar, Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar –"_

"_SLEEP IN HEAVENLY PEEEEE-ACE! SLEE-EEP IN HEA-VEN-LY PEACE_."

"He answered me! That _Engl__ä__nder _sang the last bit back to me in English! Isn't that amazing? Don't you think that's amazing, Heinrich?"

"I think you should listen to the song and go to sleep."

"Pff. Who needs sleep on a night like this?"

"Me. You. The boys in the next section of the trench. _Die Englische._ Everyone, in fact."

"I wholeheartedly disagree."

"Smmmrrmrmmm."

"Heinrich? Heinrich! Well, if you're too boring to do anything except sleep, I'm leaving. Back soon."

"Wha-? Erik, you can't go over!"

"Sure I can. Who's going to shoot me now? A bird? I'll be back before you know it. Fifteen minutes at the most."

"Wait, Erik – ah, _Schei__β__e_."

"Let me guess. Couldn't sleep?"

Erik jumps in surprise, whipping round to face whoever it is who addressed him, then relaxes. It's just an English soldier; around the same age (maybe a tad younger), shorter than him, wiry, with brown hair and very, _very_ blue eyes. Wow. Like the sky, except prettier. They're so nice that Erik can't think of any good adjectives to describe them.

"No, no. My partner wants to sleep, but I do not."

The man laughs. "I'm the opposite. My friend is keeping me up singing _Silent Night_."

"Really? He was the one singing _Stille Nacht _in English?"

"You were the one singing it in German? Thanks!"

Luckily Erik realises that this must be sarcasm, and laughs. "You are welcome! It is Christmas Eve, and it is not often that we stop killing one another."

"That is the point of the war, or so I've been told. Your English is astounding."

"My grandmother was Irish. She used to teach me English when I stayed with her at Christmas."

"Ah, that explains it. Charles Xavier, by the way." He puts out his hand and Erik takes it. He notices that Mr Xavier is the first soldier he's met that doesn't introduce himself by rank, and so he does the same.

"Erik Lehnsherr."

"Pleased to meet you, Erik Lehnsherr."

"And I am pleased to meet you, Charles Xavier."

They stand there in silence for a while, Charles leaning against one of the few trees that hasn't been blown up yet. "You know, we should do something tomorrow. Or, rather, later on today."

"Like what? We cannot exactly give one another Christmas presents."

"Of course we can. Have you got coffee, chocolate, rum, things like that?"

"Well, yes, but there is not very much of those things."

"That's why they're good presents! They're in short supply on our side too. So, we could exchange gifts. But that's quite boring, frankly. I mean, of course they're good and all, but a bit dull all the same. We need something bigger, something better, something people will remember for years to come…" Charles stares off into space, obviously thinking hard.

"A football match?" Erik blurts, completely out of the blue. Charles stares at him like he's gone mad. Which, to be honest, he probably has.

"A football match? A _football _match? To commemorate the truce? That, my dear fellow, is quite possibly the… _best _idea I have ever heard!"  
>"Really?" Erik grins in relief.<p>

"Yes, really! We could hold it tomorrow morning, after the presents. About eleven o'clock? I think we've got a ball rattling about somewhere in the trench. God bless the man who brought it! Helmets for goalposts, soldiers for a crowd… Strictly friendly, of course, don't want any punch-ups breaking out. But it'll be fun! How about you tell your boys about it when you go back, and I'll tell mine, and by morning we'll be all ready and raring to go?" This is a very long passage of speech, and a little beyond Erik's loose grasp of English grammar; but, surprisingly, he finds he can understand every word. _How strange_, he thinks. But he doesn't voice his puzzlement. Charles looks at him a little strangely, like he's confused too, but surely not for the same reason. It's not like he can read minds or anything.

"Yes, that sounds very good."

"Great! See you in the morning, then."

"See you, Charles."

"Goodbye, Erik."

And with that, they both trudge away through the mud and slime to their respective worlds.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Aaaaaaaand on we go with the next chapter. Thanks to the guys that reviewed/favorited/alerted (!):**

**Little Draca**

**Tono's Pizza Delivery**

**NECO NECO **

**htstff57**

**lunar wolfe**

**LsAngel**

**Syringecupcake**

**And of course Dreamcreator :)**

**Love you guys. Hopefully this is soon enough for you. Enjoy!**

**Despite all these lovely people saying and/or doing nice things about this story, I find it a little depressing that I can count the number of people who reviewed on three fingers. Please review, people! It really makes my day. And God knows I haven't had the best one today.**

**By the way, this story will be split up into seven parts (surprise surprise), each set in a different year and in a different place. I'm not really sure yet how many chapters each part will have; some of them might be pretty darn short, because (as you may have noticed) I'm not the best at creating plots. And the parts won't be in any sort of chronological order. The next one might be, like, 1800s or something. I don't know, I just write the thing.**

**Something I forgot to mention in the first chapter: a lot of the things in the story are inspired by certain YouTube videos. Specifically: 'Will I Find You Again', and 'Never Tear Us Apart'. ****I urge you to watch them, they are sort of amazing. **

**God, I'm so forgetful! I don't own the characters, or **_**Midwinterblood**_**. Although I do own a little drawing I did of Charles and Erik in my maths book. It helped me learn what continous data is, despite my complete lack of artistic talent. On with the show!**

**Chapter Two **

The next morning, Charles is woken bright and early by Wilson shouting in his face. "MERRY CHRISTMAS, CHARLIE!"

"Urghh. Merry Christmas, old boy. Yuletide felicitations and all that." Charles sits up and swings his legs over the side of his bunk, yawning widely. "What time is it?"

"Eight thirty."

"Good heavens, that late?"

"Are you complaining?"

"Of course not. I'm just not used to it." Suddenly Charles remembers his moonlit conversation. "Oh, Wilson?"

"Yes?"

"How d'you feel about having a game of footie with the Boche today?"

Over on the other side of no-man's land, Erik is saying almost exactly the same thing to Heinrich, having woken him up a couple of minutes previously. "So, what do you think?"

"I think you're insane."

"What? Why?"

"Because a) the officers will never allow it, b) someone will get killed and spark another battle, and c) we haven't got a ball."

"Okay, a) I'll persuade them, b) no, they won't, and c) the Englishman I met said he had one."

"Oh, did he now? I bet it'll have a bomb in it or something."

"Have you been talking to Adolf again? Charles wouldn't do that. He seems a nice chap."

"Yes, and as soon as the truth breaks your friend Charles will shoot you."

Erik's heart sinks a little at the prospect, but he shakes it off. "Come on, Heinrich. Please? It won't be any fun without you. And I need you to tell the rest of the lads."

Heinrich mutters under his breath, but thankfully agrees.

Nine o'clock sees both sides climbing out of their trenches, warm smiles taking the place of screams of terror. They shake hands and clap each other on the back, exchange greetings and presents, mostly coffee and alcohol. A few give each other souvenirs; buttons from their uniforms and other little mementoes of the day. Charles searches the crowd for Erik's face (he spots Wilson, an amateur barber back home, cutting the hair of a kneeling German), and finds him standing a little way away from his kinsmen, also scanning the multitude. Surely he's not looking for Charles. He couldn't be. They don't know each other that well, they met literally six hours ago - but when their eyes meet a huge grin breaks across Erik's face and he hurries across the field towards him.

"_Frohe Weihnachten_, my friend!" Charles smiles and takes his offered hand.

"Merry Christmas to you too, Erik. Did you manage to get any sleep?"

"None at all. You?"

"A few hours, but I was woken by my friend shouting in my face. He's the one over there, giving your lad a haircut."

"That's my friend Heinrich. I'm afraid I woke him up rather loudly this morning as well."

Charles laughs. "Well, I understand how he feels. But now, to business. Would you like your present now or after the match?"

Erik feels his heart do a little flutter of excitement, like a caged bird, against his ribcage. "You got me a present?"

"Well, it wasn't that much of a bother, it's something I've been working on for a while now."

"Really? What is it?"

Charles pulls out a small bundle from the pocket of his uniform and hands it to him. "Open it and find out."

Erik grins and carefully takes the brown paper package. He can sort of sense that whatever's inside is fragile, though he doesn't know how he knows. He folds back the paper and stares down at the object in his hand, speechless.

"Erik? What is it? You hate it, don't you? I know, it's rubbish, isn't it? Awful. Don't know why I gave it to you. You can throw it away, if you like."

"What? Why? Charles, it's beautiful."

"I know, it's – wait, what?"

"I said, it's beautiful. This is the best Christmas present I've ever had. Thank you."

Charles blushes adorably and looks down at the mud. "Well, it's not like I took a lot of time over it or anything." Erik smiles at him and then at the little carved wooden bear nestled comfortably in his hand. _Yes, you did_.

"I do them for people back home all the time."

_No, you don't_.

"I just thought you'd like it."

_Yes, I do_.

"I do, very much so. I'm afraid my present won't live up to the high standard it has set."

"You got me a present too? Ah, that's too kind." Charles looks up at him eagerly, like a child about to open a bulging stocking.

Erik puts his hand in his own pocket and takes out his present, his hands shaking slightly. Wait, he can't do this. This is weird. This is not what you give an enemy soldier you've only just met –

Before he can retract his hand, Charles gently takes the object and stares at it. And Erik finds that he knows how the smile will look before it happens; he knows how the corners of Charles's mouth will turn up, how those bright blue eyes will sparkle with joy, how happiness will shine out of his every orifice like there's a miniature sun inside him. He feels like he's seen this particular smile, and all the other ones that make up the ensemble of the man's facial expressions, many times before, but that doesn't stop his mouth returning the gesture automatically. And it didn't stop him sketching it earlier this morning.

"This…" Charles speechless, that's a new thing. Wait, how did he know that? "This is amazing, Erik. Thank you so much." He runs his fingers over the coarse paper and charcoal strokes like a blind man, like he's trying to see the picture with his hands, although Erik knows he can see perfectly well with his eyes.

Now it is Erik's turn to flush bright pink and glance shyly down at the ground. He _blushed_. He's never blushed before in his life. What is this man doing to him? And, more importantly, why does he feel like he's known him all his life?

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Sorry this chapter is a little short, I haven't quite sorted out the next bit yet :( Please read and review. I need encouragement to write, if I think no one's interested then I won't carry on. So if you want more, tell me!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello again! Time for another dose of Cherik fluffiness. Just kidding, there's some serious stuff in here too. The next section, especially… (not this one, though). Massive thanks to everyone that reviewed! **

**BloodFeud – hehe, thanks :) I'm a sucker for cuteness. Be warned, it's going to get a whole lot darker in the next few chapters.**

**Dreamcreator – yup, this is the next chap for Part 1. I've already got most of another part sorted, but I don't know where it's going to fit in. Mind if I PM you for advice? Thanks for the encouragement, by the way!**

**LsAngel – thank you! **

**TONO'S PIZZA DELIVERY – woah! *covers ears* that was one capitalised review! But thank you. At least it got me off my arse and in front of the laptop, eh?**

**NECO NECO – glad you're interested! As Dreamcreator will tell you, I was a little scared that people would think I was a complete loony. Which, obviously, I'm not… hehe… *****hides collection of Doctor Who memorabilia***** **

**And now on with the show!**

**Chapter Three **

The rest of the day seems as fleeting as a British summer to Charles. The football match goes ahead, and, after a hard-fought struggle, it ends in a draw. Charles sits on the sidelines and keeps score, though there isn't much to record, so he just watches Erik play. The man is really rather talented. One of his goals (a supreme header just out of reach of the goalie's outstretched hands) is so astoundingly professional that all the boys, German and English alike, give a great roar of approval, and Charles nearly drops the little portrait in shock. Luckily he catches it before it can get trampled into the mud by the crowd.

What a beautiful gift it is. For some reason, Charles can't help but run his fingers over the little bumps and ridges in the paper, like he can find some deeper meaning in it by touch or something. He wishes he could draw like that. As it is, all he can create is stupid little figurines made out of damp, no-man's land wood. Raven always liked them, though. He wonders idly if she took her cat to the hospital with her. She sends letters once a month, dependable as clockwork, and he does his level best to reply to each one. It's a little hard when shells are falling in the trenches. She seems quite happy, though she says that lots of the boys coming in have horrific injuries. There was one lad with shell-shock that wouldn't speak, just kept staring off into the distance and shaking. Poor bugger.

"Xavier? Score?" Jenkins comes over, red-faced and sweaty, startling Charles out of his musings.

"Sorry? Oh, right. Yes. Um, I think that makes it… three all."

"Rightio. That German fellow's quite the player, isn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose. I was never one for sport at school. More of an academic." Whenever he tried to pass the ball, his legs would go numb, hot and cold at the same time, and he'd invariably fall over. It was fine when he was walking, and manageable when running, but as soon as he lifted a foot off the ground, he was gone. The other boys laughed and called him Jelly-Leg Charlie. His mother had taken him to the doctor when he was ten, but there was no apparent reason for his totally uncoordinated limbs. His bones were a tad more brittle than average; perhaps that was it.

"Yes, I can tell. You liked watching the cricket, though, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes. Best game in the world. Lots of standing around and breaks for lunch, rain and tea."

"Ooh, I'd better get back. There's a hole in our defence that needs filling before that Boche strikes again. Cheerio."

"Bye." Jenkins trots briskly back to the pitch, neatly tackles a mid-fielder, and sends the ball shooting back down towards the opposite goal.

Half an hour and four goals later, the match is declared 5 – 5. Erik goes over to Charles and sits down beside him on a broken tree stump, grinning broadly. "Congratulations, my friend. From what my limited knowledge of football can tell me, those were some superb goals."

"Thank you, Charles. It wasn't just me, though." Two blushes in one day? This has to be some kind of record.

"Come on, don't be shy. You got a hat-rick!"

"A… what?" Erik frowns in confusion, rifling through the English-German dictionary in his head. Nope, no "hat-rick". He knows "hat", but the definition doesn't really seem to fit into the context.

"It means when one player scores three goals in one game."

"Ah. Is there a word for four goals?" Something about Charles brings out Erik's mischievous side.

"No, but there is a phrase for what you're being now."

"And what is that?"

"A cocky bugger."

"Excuse me! I think I have a right to be proud of my achievements."  
>"But you didn't win."<p>

"Well, no, but neither did you. It was a… how do you say… a _tie_."

"I wish this bloody war would end in a tie," Charles murmurs softly, staring down at the ground. Erik isn't sure whether he was meant to hear that, so he doesn't reply. He looks instead at the soldiers littering the field, joking and laughing together. How could they go from killing each other one day to playing football the next? Everyone is pretending like nothing is wrong, like they aren't on opposite sides of the war, like the truce will never end. But it has to, some time. If they are lucky it might extend for a few more days. It could end in the next five minutes. The order would come through, the men would stand still, shocked, staring at each other like rabbits caught in headlights. He wonders if they'd extend the ceasefire just long enough to let the enemy get back to their trenches before starting up the guns again. Even then, there would be some that took out their pistols and shot their counterparts where they stood. And Charles… Erik would have to shoot Charles's friends, and vice versa. What about if they come face to face in a raid? What then?

"Erik? Are you all right?"  
>"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Erik attempts to swallow the golf ball stuck in his throat and smile like nothing is wrong. It doesn't work.<p>

"You looked a little pale there. Did you eat something dodgy?"

"Everything in the trench is dodgy." Charles laughs, but his eyes are worried.

"Erik – " He's interrupted by someone shouting in the middle of the crowd.

"Listen up! Listen up!" The chatter dies down quickly as all the men turn to look at the announcer. "We've just got word from the general. He says… he says we're to end this stupid truce, or we'll all be shot for cowardice. We've got until the day after tomorrow."

Erik and Charles stare at each other in speechless horror.

**A/N: Dun dun duuuuuuuun! Betcha didn't expect that, did you? Tee hee. So, how will our heroes react to this shocking order? Will they obey the command, and risk killing each other? Or will they refuse, and be shot by their own side? Tune in next time to find out! **

**Oh, and review. Please :)**

**Nearly forgot! In the last chapter, when Erik's trying to persuade Heinrich to tell the other soldiers about the football match and the latter says, "Yes, and as soon as the truth breaks your friend Charles will shoot you," it's meant to be "as soon as the **_**truce **_**breaks." Sorry about that.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapter four, here we come! We're nearing the end of Part 1 now. Thank you so much, reviewers/favoriters/alerters!  
>NECO NECO –Thank you :) don't worry, they don't kill each other. But maybe other people… woops spoilers ;) I actually could not tell that English wasn't your first language. You're so good at it!<strong>

**Dreamcreator – sorry my PM's a little weird at the moment :/ isn't Erik always sexy? Hehe. I was thinking that some part of Charles's subconscious remembers what it was like to be paralysed, and so he thinks he can't feel his legs and that he's going to fall over, even when he's fine. Thanks for taking the time to review every chapter! I've got a lotta homework too :( **

**Lola Kristy – thank you :) I'm writing as fast as I can! There's this thing that gets in the way sometimes, it's called the real world. But I don't want to live there any more!**

**And now for chapter four.**

**Chapter Four **

"Charles? Charles!"

Erik hurries after the retreating Englishman, stumbling over the shrapnel and bits of barbed wire sticking up out of the mud. Charles sure can move fast when he wants to. "Charles, come back! Where are you going?"

Charles stops abruptly and turns around to face Erik, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides, stormy blue eyes bright with anger and unshed tears. When he speaks, his voice is strained, like the action physically hurts him.

"I'm going home."

"What?"

"I said, I'm going _home_. I don't want to stay here in this godforsaken field pretending to be friends any longer. I don't want to be a soldier. I don't want to kill people, I never wanted that."

"But you can't go, you'll be killed yourself!"

"I'd pick being shot for running away over shooting other people any day."

Erik is a bit alarmed by this outburst; from what he's seen of Charles over the last day, he's not the sort to get angry easily. He gingerly reaches out a hand to his companion's arm, but the latter flinches back like he's been burnt.

"Charles, calm down. Think about it. You _can't_ go home, and I don't want to see you get shot."

"Don't you see? The truce is _ending_. We have to start killing each other again in two days' time."

"Yes, I know."

Charles flounders, searching for words to describe his anguish. "Then… why are you so calm? Aren't you angry?"

"Angry? No, I don't think so. Sad, yes, but not angry. What is the point in getting angry if you cannot change anything?"

"I…" All the rage and tension flows out of Charles's body with big _huff_ of air. He sits down heavily in the mud, head in hands. Erik looks down at him for a moment, deliberating, then joins him on the ground. Right now there are less important things to worry about than a dirty uniform.

"Do you feel better?" he asks tentatively after a minute or so. Charles looks up at him and smiles weakly.

"Yes, much. Sorry about that, I was just so infuriated that they'd let it go on for that long and then end it so abruptly…" Only Charles would use a word like _infuriated _so nonchalantly. Yet another eccentricity that appears to pop into Erik's mind unprovoked.

"But it is not over yet," he points out, trying to inject a note of cheeriness into his voice.

"No, but it will be soon."

"Then should we not be enjoying the peaceful time we have left and not worrying about the future?"

Charles thinks for a moment before a bright smiles breaks like the dawn across his face. "I suppose we should."

The next forty-one hours pass impossibly slowly, but at the same time feel very short. Really, they are a repetition of the first seven hours of Christmas Day, though without the frivolity and carelessness that came with not knowing when their time together would come to a close. Erik and Charles sit on the two old tree stumps in the middle of the field, talking away about anything and everything that comes to mind: interests, home, family, past, future. They each find just how much you can discover about a person by conversation. They don't go back to the trenches at all, relying instead on their comrades to bring them food, which they do regularly and uncomplainingly. Erik draws with sticks of charcoal on scraps of paper, each one causing Charles's eyes to light up in joy. They play a game where one of them chooses a soldier from their side and the other has to guess who they are, where they come from, what they're like. Charles is surprisingly good at this, predicting Heinrich's personality with startling ease. Sufficed to say, Erik does not share this talent, eliciting many a laugh from his companion as he makes increasingly wild guesses, culminating in the statement that Jenkins is actually an undercover Nepalese conservationist trying desperately to stop the soldiers from stepping on a rare sacred flower. Erik loves making Charles laugh.

There are more football games, too many to count; Erik actually plays better as the hours progress, as if he's rebelling against the never-ending tide pushing them ever closer to the time of their parting. He always comes back to sit with Charles afterwards, though. The first few times the boys shout after him to come and talk with them, but they quickly learn that he will not turn around for anything.

Eventually, the load of the hours spent awake overwhelms them and they fall asleep where they sit. Erik wakes up in the early hours of the morning to find Charles curled comfortably against his side like a cat, arms wrapped around his waist and face pressed to his chest. At first Erik is a little alarmed, but then he hesitantly rests his left hand on Charles's back, and, seeing that the younger man does not protest, settles down again and drifts back to sleep. He is woken again a couple of hours later by someone shaking his shoulder.

"Erik?"

"Wha…?" He blinks groggily, eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. Heinrich is standing in front of him with a worried expression on his face.

"Wake up, mate. The ceasefire is ending soon."

Erik sits bolt upright. "What? What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock."

"_Schei__β__e._" The truce ends at nine.

"Language, Erik," Charles reprimands him. He is standing a little way away from them, looking out across the fields to somewhere Erik can't see.

"Sorry, sorry. My mother would be disappointed in me." Charles laughs, but it is a small sound, and there are little clouds of sadness in his eyes. "So, we have a little time left. What do you want to do?"

"Can we go for a walk?"

Erik is a little bemused by this preposition, but agrees nonetheless. They amble along in the grass in comfortable silence, passing the others as they go. They have all abandoned pretences of amicability and stand on opposite sides, near their trenches, whispering among themselves and occasionally casting disapproving glances towards Charles and Erik. At one point Charles's officer steps out of the English line and very quietly and politely asks Charles to join his comrades; but Erik gives him such an unpleasant look that he quickly retreats back towards safety. They carry on walking long past the last of the soldiers (though they remain in sight to avoid being accused of desertion), and somewhere along the way their hands become intertwined, though if you asked Erik later how that came about he would say he had no idea.

Then comes the dreadful moment when Charles takes out his pocket watch (so English, thinks Erik) and says those four fatal words: "It's five to nine."

"Time to go back, then?"

"I don't want to, but I fear we may have to, my friend."

"It's alright. We had to go sometime, didn't we?"  
>"I suppose we did." Charles sighs quietly, turning the watch over and over in his hand. Erik's not sure, but he thinks he sees a little raindrop splash onto the worn brass. Which is strange, considering it's a fresh winter morning and there are no clouds in the sky.<p>

"Come on." He sticks out his hand, the way he did two days ago when they met for the last time; and like then, Charles takes it. A December wind threads its icy fingers into their hair, as if begging them to stay in this place, this little cocoon of safety where there in no war and no killing and no nothing, just them two alone with nothing to do but talk. But they must return to the real world some day, and so they go back bravely, holding hands to prevent their fingers from shaking as they walk.

**A/N: Review? Please? This isn't the last chapter of this part, by the way. There's one more left! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Last chapter of Part 1, guys, so say your goodbyes to our soldier boys now. Again, massive thanks to those who reviewed/favorited/alerted!**

**Lola Kristy – nah, it's not so bad, really. I just whine a lot. Like a grape. Sorry, I'm kind of addicted to bad puns. As for the self-allusion – maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. Maybe I was making a contrast between summer breeze and winter wind. Maybe I'm just obsessed with wind. I don't know. Anyway, thank you for your opinion!**

**Dreamcreator – yeah, Erik's sweet like that ^_^ and a little scary too! Again, thank you for your wonderful encouragements.**

**By the way, there are some quite rude words in this chapter, so I apologise. But it is T. And I'm sure you'll understand when you see them in context. On with the show!**

**Chapter Five **

_Boom._

_Boom._

_Boom. _

"Erik, we have to – "

Erik can't hear Heinrich over the deafening noise of the shells. What was it he said? What do they have to do?

He knows what his heart feels he has to do.

No. Don't think like that. Don't you dare, Erik Lehnsherr. That time is past, and you can't ever get it back. It was nice while it lasted, but it's gone now. So don't you dare think about -

Too late.

"Erik? Erik!" Heinrich is shaking him now, rattling him back to the present. "We have to go!"

"Where?"

"On the raid, stupid!" Ah, yes. The raid. The raid on the British trenches. The raid he's been dreading for days because he knows that it will most probably bring him face to face with _him _again. But he steels himself, bringing up the old shields around his heart, and picks up his gun. It doesn't matter, it's just another job. He's done dozens of them before. Nothing special. Just another thing that needs doing to win the war.

_But do you really want to go out there and kill people again? _whispers a little voice in his head.

Well –

No. Don't you waver now, Lehnsherr. Get out there and fight for your country. They're just enemy soldiers.

"Let's go, then."

He doesn't ponder on the fact that the little voice in his mind had a distinct English accent.

"Ready, men? On my count, then. Three. Two."

Erik barely has time to blink before the officer's at one and he's up and over the wire and running hell for leather across no-man's land, passing the two tree stumps where they sat –

No. Keep running. Don't stop, not for anything.

An English soldier looms up before him out of the mist and before he knows what he's doing, he's pulled the trigger of his rifle and the other man is falling down in the mud. It's as easy as that.

That's the scary thing about firing a gun: just how little effort it requires. One electrical signal from his brain to his finger, and a man's life is over.

He shakes off those thoughts and vaults over a tangle of barbed wire. Thank God he hadn't skipped PE at school. Some of his peers aren't so lucky, becoming ensnared in the coils like rabbits in a huntsman's trap. But still he runs on, until he's right on top of the trenches.

He hesitates for a second.

Pull it together, Lehnsherr. Do your duty.

One step later and he's there, in the trench, breathing hard and staring at the Englishmen around him.

Oh, shit. Where the hell are the others?

And then it's all _gugugugugugugu_ as a swarm of machine gun bullets rip into the soldiers around him and they fall like autumn leaves, and Erik is filled with a sort of weird sense of elation, though it feels wrong as it happens.

But then –

But then –

Charles is here.

_Charles is here._

And he's looking at Erik with a strange mix of disappointment and pain in his blue eyes that shine even when the rest of his face is covered in mud.

And Erik drops his gun at his feet and stares back, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

"I – " I what? I'm sorry I killed your friends? Do you really think that's going to help?

The noises of the battle fade until they are muffled and distant, as if Erik is standing behind a thick glass wall. Time seems to stand still as they stare at each other.

But then Charles's eyes widen in shock –

And Erik senses movement behind him and turns to see Heinrich lifting up his gun and pointing it at Charles –

And Erik's heart stops.

There is only one thought running through his mind.

_Stop him._

But it's too late, he can already see Heinrich's finger tightening on the trigger –

_There's only one thing for it_, he thinks, and throws himself in front of Charles.

The next thing he knows, he's looking up at Charles's face and there's a burning pain in his chest.

"Erik? Erik!"

Darkness dances at the corners of his vision, threatening to overwhelm him, but he pulls himself up out of the abyss to speak, albeit faintly.

"Are you alright?"  
>"Yes. Yes, Erik, I'm perfectly fine, thanks to you. What possessed you to do that, eh?" Charles's tone is light-hearted, but Erik can see the tears running down his face. He reaches up and catches one on the tip of his thumb, marvelling at its fragile beauty as it runs down towards his wrist.<p>

"To stop Heinrich shooting you, of course. I didn't do it for the thrill, you know." Charles doesn't smile.

"It was a very stupid thing to do, my friend. Now you've gone and got yourself… injured."

"I think… I think I'm dying, Charles."

"Nonsense, of course you're not dying. You'll be right as rain, soon as we get the ambulance here."

"I do not think they will be able to prevent Death from knocking on my door this time." This time? Where did that come from? He's never died before. Or has he? Somehow this feeling seems familiar, like he's lived it before.

"No – Erik, you can't – "

"Don't worry, Charles. I have the strangest feeling we'll see each other again, very soon." And with that, he closes his eyes and falls, spiralling down into the never-ending darkness.

**A/N: And there we go! :) hope you liked it and please review. The next part will contain a psychologist and a mental patient… just a little teaser for you there! Tune in next time to read all about it :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: And now for Part 2! Yaaaaay. Sorry it's so late, I was really busy with school work and a bit of writer's block :( But I'm back now and ready to write! **

**I think you know how grateful I am by now, reviewers/favoriters/alerters. But just in case you didn't – thank you!**

**Patch Malfoy – awww, thank you! It is a little sad, I must say. And you're welcome XD **

**Dreamcreator – trust me, I was as devastated as you. Erik was looking at the story over my shoulder and saw the bit with Heinrich about to shoot Charles and yelled, "NO!" and stole the computer and started typing feverishly. I wasn't really brave enough to stop him, to be honest. Again, thank you! :) In answer to your question: hmmm. I do not know, but probably they'll take turns, because otherwise it's a little boring if Erik just dies in every single life, if you know what I mean. Feel free to PM me for your other questions! **

**TONO'S PIZZA DELIVERY – yeah, I'm not really one for clich****é****s. At least, not the soppy, happy-ever-after ones. You like his sense of humour? Really? I wasn't aware I put one in! Hehe. Yup, they'll be seeing each other again very soon :) **

**lovely mokona – thank you for taking the time to review! :) that was very kind. Yeah, I suppose they did only have two and a half days. But remember, they're going to meet again. And I agree, there wasn't much romance in that part. I like to think they felt something more, but weren't really sure what to do about it. Maybe if they'd had more time, they would've acted on their feelings. I like to think they would've. We'll never know now, I suppose. **

**By the way, the spelling of 'Erik' as 'Eric' in this part is deliberate. **

**And now for Part 2 :)**

**Part 2**

**The Psychologist**

**England, Oxfordshire**

**22****nd**** April, 1952**

**Chapter One **

"And here are the individual rooms, where we keep the high-risk and violent patients."

Rooms? They're more like cells, he thinks, as he follows the director down a long, white corridor. Small, with heavy-duty locks on the doors and thick iron bars on the windows. Padded, some of them, with what look like massive cushions affixed to the bare white walls. What quaint language these doctors use. Rooms, patients, therapy. As if it all isn't a prison for people whose minds have snapped like overstretched rubber bands.

"Doctor?"

"Hmm?" He must have zoned out there for a second. Focus, man. You don't want to get kicked out of here on your first day, do you?

"Would you like to meet your patient now, or would you like to rest now and wait until the morning?"

Good question. He's eager to see his new ward for the first time, of course. But the drive was long and darkness had already fallen like a blanket on the trees when he arrived. And it would be better in the morning, when he's less exhausted.

"Is it alright if I meet him in the morning?"

"Of course." The director smiles, and the new doctor thinks he sees a little tinge of relief in his eyes. That's silly, of course. Why should this man care when he meets the patient? "Your room is in the staff ward, just down here. I'll show you the way." His boss hurries along the harsh, artificially white corridor, his sensible shoes squeaking on the linoleum. He himself pauses to take a look out of the barred window. It's no use: the lights inside are too bright to make anything out. All he sees is his own reflection, staring back with a slightly scared look on his face. _None of that_, he tells himself sternly. _It'll be fine. You went to the best psychological college in the country, for God's sake! _

He takes a deep breath, and follows the older man to the room where he'll be staying for the next two years.

"Your new doctor arrive today, freak. Bet you anything he'll be gone within the month." The orderly smirks maliciously as he picks up the tray of untouched supper. "Who would want to treat _you_?"

He doesn't reply, staring up at the blank white wall above his head and trying to block out the sound.

"Oi!" The orderly hits his arm. Hard. That'll leave a bruise in the morning, one of the many painting his body like some kind of strange landscape. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, freak." He turns his head obligingly. "Good boy. Now, I'm going to strap you in for the night. Tell me if it's too tight, okay?" The man sniggers at his little joke and goes to get the straightjacket.

He looks up at the wall again and wonders what this doctor will be like. Just the same as all the others, probably. Despite the mocking tone to his voice, the man was right – they all leave in the end. Nothing they do seems to help. He still has hallucinations and screaming fits. It's not his fault, he can't control them, but no matter how many times he tries to tell everyone they still don't believe him. He knows that some of the staff think he's just putting it on to get attention.

_Schizophrenia_. That's what they write on their clipboards when they think he can't see. At one point he might have been able to work out what it meant – but he stopped remembering things like that after the first treatment. Now, they're pleased if he can even recall his own name when he wakes up.

The orderly comes back and he raises his arms obediently to be ensnared into the claustrophobic jacket. They say it's for his own protection, so he doesn't hurt himself, but he knows it's because they're scared of him, for all their firm holds and determined gazes. He's hurt people before. He didn't mean to. He never means to.

Except for that time, the first time. The day he finally cracked and lashed out at the man that had made his life a living hell for so many years.

He smiles as he remembers the feeling of elation he got from seeing the blood flowing across the floor.

The orderly pulls the straps too tight, but he doesn't complain. That'll only make it worse. He lies down on the thin mattress, wincing a little as the scratchy material of the cotton sheets brushes against his cuts and bruises.

"Don't let the bed bugs bite," says the orderly in a falsely sugary-sweet voice, before laughing and flicking off the harsh white light.

He turns his face to the wall, breathing shallowly in a bid to reduce the twinging pain. It doesn't work.

"Good night, Professor."

Charles Xavier closes his eyes and dreams of flying.

**A/N: And there we go! Hope it wasn't too confusing for you guys. The next chapter will be out sooner this time, I promise! Until then, please drop me a review to say what you thought of it or if there's anything I should change! :) **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm sorry! I know I said that the next update would be sooner this time, but then I went to New York and got sick and spent practically the entire time in bed so I couldn't write and I only got back on Monday and jetlag is a bitch so yeah. Sorry, I ramble when I'm stressed. Anyway, this is the longest chapter I've ever written, so I hope that makes up for it. Seriously, it is **_**super**_**-long. Didn't take that long to write, though, it just sort of flowed out. Hope you like!**

**Thanks for the reviews, guys! I love you all from the bottom of my heart. **

**Lola Kristy – yeah, I was trying to be a little ambiguous with that chapter so you wouldn't know which one was the patient til the end ;) glad you liked it! I wanted to show different sides to them, to have angry!Charles and calm!Eric, and so I came up with this. Aww, thank you! :)**

**Dreamcreator – I've PMed you already but I'll say it again anyway :) that guy is mean, isn't he? Haha. Don't worry yourself, Eric will defend Charles in due time. That's if Charles can ever tell him… **

**Cheyo Motart – the "epicness"? Why, thank you! I don't think anyone's ever described my work like that before… *****blushes*******

**feralfairy – hopefully you got my PM, so I'll just say this: thank you!**

**And now on to the next!**

**Chapter Two**

Eric stands outside Room 21, his hands shaking a little as he flips open Charles Xavier's chart to check his diagnosis one last time. Paranoid schizophrenia, hallucinations, violent episodes. Stabbed his stepfather with a bread knife at the age of seventeen, allegedly unprovoked. Alcoholic mother, died when he was eleven of liver problems. A younger sister, whereabouts unknown. Eric wonders idly where she is, and if anybody has made an effort to look after her after her brother was arrested.

As yet, nothing appears to cure the patient. In fact, the doctors don't give him any treatment at all, except for the usual pills and something called electroconvulsive therapy, which apparently calms him down and stops the hallucinations for a while. Eric's not really sure what it consists of; he makes a mental note to ask one of his colleagues later.

He takes his time putting his pen back into the breast pocket of his white coat (it still feels weird, like he's a little kid playing dress-up in his bedroom) and closing the chart slowly and carefully. He knows he's only doing it to waste time, because for all his muttered words and stormy glares he's actually absolutely bloody terrified. It's his first proper patient, a real living person that he could hurt if he makes a mistake. What happens to doctors that break their Hippocratic Oath? Do they get three strikes, like in baseball? Or do they just get thrown out of their hospital, out of their livelihood, out of the entire medical profession?  
><em>Calm down, idiot<em>, his brain tells him. _It'll be fine._  
>He takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door.<br>What he sees shocks him completely.  
>He expected...well, he doesn't quite know what he expected, but it wasn't this. It wasn't a small, brown-haired man sitting in the middle of the narrow hospital bed with his arms wrapped tight around his legs and his knees pressed up to his chest, as if he's afraid he'll fall apart if he lets go. And Eric is a little wary of that too - he is thin and pale, with dark smudges under his eyes and hollow cheeks that make him look halfway between life and death. Obviously he doesn't get enough to eat.<br>At the sound of the door, Charles Xavier's head snaps around to stare at Eric through blank blue eyes. Oh well, thinks Eric. It's now or never.  
>"Hello, Mr Xavier. My name's Doctor Lehnsherr and I'm going to be taking care of you for the next..." Damn. How long is going to be here again? "... For the foreseeable future."<br>The corners of the man's mouth turn up in an almost-smile, as if he saw the uncertainty in Eric's face and is amused by it, but he doesn't speak. Eric has a feeling he'll be the one doing most (if not all) of the talking today. "Now, I've had a look at your chart here and the director has explained to me what your diagnosis is. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your...episodes and how I can help you to deal with them. Is that alright, Mr Xavier?" Charles nods, although there is a slight touch of exasperation in his eyes. This is probably to be expected; he's most likely had to go through this many times since he was first sent here. "That's good. So, first things first: it says here you have paranoid schizophrenia. Do you know what that means?" Charles shakes his head, looking a little puzzled at the question, as if he's never been asked it before. "Well, that makes two of us. I have a vague idea, but I've never really studied this part of psychology in depth before, so this is going to be a learning experience for both of us." Eric sits down opposite his patient on an uncomfortable hospital chair and laces his fingers together."To the best of my knowledge, it means you sometimes do things that you normally wouldn't even dream of. Bad things. Hurtful things. Does that sound right?"  
>Another nod.<br>"And when that happens, what does it feel like?"  
>A small dent forms between Charles's eyebrows for a few moments before he speaks in a quiet, measured tone. "It's like there's a voice inside my head."<p>

Now this is more like it. Eric's tutor at university often gave him lectures on people hearing voices and how to treat them. "A voice? What does it say, Mr Xavier? Does it tell you to hurt people?"  
>Charles's eyes widen slightly and Eric grins inwardly. Bullseye, meet arrow. "Yes. Yes, it does."<br>"Did it tell you to hurt your stepfather?"  
>"Yes."<br>"I see." Eric jots this down on his notepad and taps his pen against the clipboard absentmindedly. "How often does this voice speak to you?"  
>"Not all the time. Just...sometimes. I don't know when it's going to happen."<br>"Hmm. And am I right in saying that you also suffer from hallucinations?"  
>"Yes," Charles says quietly, almost breathing the word. His eyes are suddenly different somehow – not so vacant, and filled with an almost fearful anxiety. Eric is a little apprehensive of continuing, but ploughs on nonetheless. It might pass in a couple of minutes.<br>"And do those come with the voice, or are they separate?"  
>"They come together." Charles is whispering now, as if speaking quietly will make what he's saying less true. He shifts further up the bed so he's lying flat on the mattress, his fists clenched in the sheets. Eric realises that the conversation must be distressing him in some way and stands up slowly, so as not to appear as a threat. He knows that some people with mental disorders resort to primal instincts to survive when their human brains fail to function normally.<p>

"I think we'll leave it there for today. Thank you for talking to me, Mr Xavier. I'll be in tomorrow if you're comfortable with having another talk about your condition. Call for the orderly if you need me, alright?" He notices that Charles flinches a little at the word "orderly". Strange. It must be something to do with his paranoia.  
>He goes to the door and opens it, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Good day, Mr Xavier."<br>"Doctor Lehnsherr?"  
>"Yes?"<br>"Call me Charles, please. I don't like being called Mr Xavier."  
>"Alright then, Charles. See you tomorrow."<br>"Goodbye, doctor."

Odd, thinks Eric, as he walks down the corridor to his little room. There was a definite palpable change in the patient's behaviour towards the end there - he became agitated, and his eyes grew round with fear. This could just have been random, of course, but there are normally triggers for this sort of thing; a particular word or action that activated the schizophrenic area of his brain and caused him to be afraid. Now, if only Eric could work out what it was, he could try and avoid it next time, so as to keep Charles calm and perhaps have a longer conversation with him. Hmm. He'd have to have a think about that.

/

Charles has calmed down somewhat when the orderly comes in with lunch, but his breath still catches in his throat and his heart is a little speeded up.  
>"How was that, eh? Did we get a little scared towards the end, freak-boy? Were you frightened of the big nasty doctor-man?"<br>No, thinks the tiny brave part of Charles's mind. He was nice, unlike some of the other staff members at this establishment.  
>He wishes that this part was bigger, that he could still be the person he used to be before the first treatment. He was clever then, bright as a button, all set to go off and do a precocious PhD in genetics at Oxford. A chance to finally escape Kurt and his awful punishments. But then the voice started, telling him to fight back when he was hit, to punch Cain in return. His stepfather, perhaps sensing that he was losing control over his prisoner, took to locking the cutlery draws in the kitchen. It didn't work - Charles soon learnt to pick the locks and spent many a night sitting at the dining table, running his fingers up and down the sharp steak knives and revelling in the smooth feeling of the steel against his skin and the blood flowing down his wrist to pool in the crook of his elbow. It took away the pain of the plethora of bruises on his back.<br>The voice was the only friend he had during those long years. Raven tried to help him, but Kurt kept them separate as much as possible, and she only cried and yelled at him whenever she saw the new cuts. He just stared blankly into space, not saying a word, as she wept and raged at him.  
>And now he is a coward, a scaredy-cat, living in a world of equal parts boredom and fear. Fear of the orderly, and what he will do to him next. Fear of anyone finding out about what the man did, and blaming Charles for being such a weakling. Fear of forgetting everything after the next treatment and reverting back to a child-like state, a dribbling idiot who needed help to eat and relieve himself. He's seen that happen to some of the worst cases before, and it looks terrifying.<p>

"I expect you were. You're afraid of everything, entcha? Even your own shadow. That's one reason they don't letcha have any nightlights nor nuffin. So ya don't have annuver one of 'em funny turns and kill someone else."

Charles knows the orderly is only winding him up to get a reaction, knows he shouldn't give him the satisfaction. But knowing something should not happen does not always make it less likely to occur.

_Take the fork from the lunch tray_, hisses the voice in his ear. _Stab him like you stabbed Kurt. Maybe then he'll stop hurting us. _

No. No, he won't this time. Not again.

But he can never resist the voice for long.

And he can already feel it creeping like a plague over his skin, stealing up his arms and worming its way inside his head.

"You all right, freak? Cat got your tongue?"

Charles looks up at the orderly's sneering face and takes a deep breath.

And then all is darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey again, guys! Thank you for all the wonderful feedback :D I'm feeling completely better, but I'm back at school now, so I don't have much time to write. I'll try and update once a week, but I might be a little late sometimes. **

**Replies to reviews:**

**Lola Kristy – 1) thank you, my dear! Sadly, I do tend to get sick quite a lot (as my friend so eloquently put it: "You're ill ALL THE TIME.") but I am currently in a rare period of complete health. Long may it continue! 2) Maybe Erik will save Charles. Maybe Charles will save Erik. I actually have no clue whatsoever. There's a lot of things I'm not sure about at the moment…**

**LifelessLil – I presume "flailing" is a good thing? Haha. I know I flail when I see something I like (e.g. Filch, Lestrade AND Mr Weasley in the Doctor Who series 7 trailer), so I'll take that as a compliment. Thanks! **

**Dreamcreator – gah, you're amazing. Reviewing every single chapter? Now that's dedication. I am really and truly honoured. And no, that was not sarcasm. Sorry I haven't PMed you in a while, I've just gone back to school and there're exams in May and I have not revised a single thing. My dad did suggest not revising at all and just winging the tests and then seeing what I need to go over for the big important ones next year. Suffice to say, that idea was shot down in flames pretty much as soon as he said it. Anyway, I'll reply soon, I promise! * ****pinky swears ***

**doctorkaitlyn – thank you! And thanks for reviewing my other stories too :) I really loved yours, if you didn't get that from my review!**

**siranoxglitch – thanks! ^_^ yeah, there's more. Quite a lot more, actually!**

**crystal moon princess – thank you so much! ^_^ that's really encouraging. To be honest, I don't really mind how many reviews I get (and boy, was I surprised I even got **_**one**_**!), so long as there's a group of people who enjoy this and want to read more. I'd rather have a (relatively) small number of readers that genuinely like my story than a large number that only read it because everyone else does, if you get my gist. And don't worry about the mistakes, I could understand you just fine! :)**

**And on we go!**

**Chapter Three **

Eric doesn't think he's ever run so fast in his life.  
>He was never that enthusiastic in PE at school, but now he's actually <em>running<em>, properly sprinting down the corridors and skidding round corners like there's an army on his heels. And he doesn't know why.  
>Something, some part of his brain, is just screaming at him to run as fast as he can, just <em>go<em> to Charles because he's in danger.  
>Suddenly, he is hit by a wall of fear and pain and hot red <em>anger<em> so powerful that he stumbles and nearly falls, leaning against one of the stark white walls and panting heavily. It pounds against his skull and roars in his ears like a monster, and his mind is filled with images of blood and knives and cuts and slices –

_What is that?_  
>He screws his eyes tight shut against it but it just keeps coming, a never-ending tidal wave of <em>hatekillstabhurt<em> -  
>And it's coming from Room 21.<br>XXX  
>People have often asked Charles why he does these things.<p>

But the truth is it's not him doing it.

It's like his body is a machine and someone has wrestled the controls from him and is directing his hand to the knife on the tray and he's trying, really trying to stop it, to stop himself, but he can't because the voice is just too strong.

And now he's strapped to the bed, raw screams ripping out of his throat because he's scared of what they're going to do to him and he's angry at the voice for taking over and at himself for letting it and there's still a part of him that wants to hurt the doctors around him for restraining him. He can feel himself projecting unbelievably loudly, more than he's ever done before, but he can't seem to stop it.

And that orderly is just standing in the corner, arms out, ready to stop him if he tries something, with a tiny smirk snagged on the edge of his mouth like a fish on a hook.

_Stick a real fish hook in his mouth. See how he likes that._

No. No.

If he was free to move his hands he'd press his palms to his temples, as if he could squeeze the voice out.

But then –

But then –

Something comes into his range.

Something different.

It's not all blue concern tinged with the black stain of fear like the minds of the doctors. This one is nicer, cleaner, but not the too-clean glare of the walls. A sort of calm green, like colour of spring. It reminds Charles of slow summer days spent out in the garden, with the grass curling beneath his bare feet and the hot sun beating down on the backs of his family, his real family, just him and Mother and Papa and Raven, no problems and no arguments and no drink, just them, eating their picnic and laughing beneath the leafy boughs of the big old oak tree.

The memory is so real that he can almost taste the sweet tang of the lemonade on his tongue. Papa turns around and smiles at him, a real smile, not small and tight and forced like the divorce ones. This is before that – Charles is maybe seven or eight, still bearing the round face and innocent mind of childhood.

"_Come on, Professor, we're all waiting for you!_" An affectionate nickname, earned through countless top marks and certificates in his short life. Charles smiles and waves at his father.

"_I'm just coming, Papa_," he calls, beginning to make his way down the gently sloping lawn to the table.

"_Hurry up, Charles, I'm starving!" _Raven grins at him, licking her lips and rubbing her stomach exaggeratedly. She was always a little melodramatic.

"_He can take all the time he wants, Raven,_" his mother scolds gently, her blue eyes twinkling in the sunshine. He'd forgotten how beautiful she looked when she was laughing. A grin breaks across his own face as he pads towards them through the thick grass.

But suddenly something is wrong. His family are still there, but they're different now, not smiling any more, their faces twisted into ugly snarls, and the colour is leaking out of the trees and the grass and the sky and being replaced with an endless, terrible darkness, and he tries to run forward but his feet won't move, it's like they're stuck in cement, and the more he tries the harder it gets, and he shouts to them but the words clog up in his throat, choking him, and then they are gone and in their place is Kurt, towering over him, eyes glowing red as he laughs, and he's holding the cane and bringing it up over his shoulder and he's going to hit him, _he's going to kill him _–

"Charles? Charles!"

Charles opens his eyes and sees his stepfather bending over him, grinning wickedly. _You've been a bad boy, Charles Xavier – _

He lets out an ear-splitting scream.

XXX

Eric bursts into the room, the red wave still pulsing dully in his mind.

Charles is bound to his bed, doctors and medical equipment gathered around him, writhing and twisting as muffled, animalistic noises tear themselves from his thin body.

His back is arched, like a giant hand has reached into his chest and is dragging him upwards by his heart, and his hands are twisted into unnatural claws that scrabble at the bindings to no avail.

He radiates pain and fear and anger, and Eric just wants to take him in his arms and keep him sheltered from everything and anything that could ever hurt him.

Where did that come from?

But there's no time for that now, he tells himself, as he briskly shoulders his way in among the throng of people and starts rattling off questions that drop like machine gun bullets off his tongue - when did it start, how long has it been going on for, was it worse before, has he been given any medicine?

"We were just about to start the electroconvulsive therapy," stammers one of the other doctors, scratching his cheek nervously. What was his name? Wilson? Something like that. He's young and fresh-faced, with gangly limbs and long fingers that shake slightly as he twirls a pen between them. Eric gets the feeling that he is afraid of him - quite understandable, given his current state of mind.

"What is that?" he growls, irritated that no one's told him yet, even though his primary patient is apparently subjected to this treatment on a regular basis.

"It's -"

But Eric does not hear the rest of the reply, because at that very moment the screams abruptly cut off and Charles stares at him. Except he's not really looking at him; no, more _through_ him - his eyes are unfocused and there is an expression of vacant happiness on his face. He mumbles something inaudible, and smiles wider.

At once Eric is next to him, clicking his fingers and waving a hand in front of his eyes in an attempt to get his attention, but he just carries on staring into the distance at something no one but him can see. Something flickers at the edge of Eric's vision, a dark blurry figure, but it vanishes as soon as he turns to look.

And then Charles's eyebrows furrow in puzzlement which quickly escalates into abject terror, and his eyes suddenly refocus on Eric, actually looking right at him this time, and his eyes widen and he screams again and struggles desperately in what Eric guesses is an attempt to escape.

Why is Charles so scared of him?

"Doctor Lehnsherr," Wilson says nervously. "I think we're ready to start the treatment now."

Eric looks around and notices for the first time the electrodes attached to Charles's temples.

Wait.

Electrodes?

But that means -

Surely they can't -

That's inhumane -

And then someone flips a switch and one thousand volts of electricity sear into Charles's brain and he cries out in complete and utter agony.

**A/N: Ooh, how I love a good cliffhanger ;) please read and review! And feel free to suggest anything you'd like to see in future chapters/parts. I'm open to any and all ideas! ^_^**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: And now it's time for me to do my annual impression of Ten. **

**I'm so, so sorry. Truly, I am. I could blame my exams, but really, it's my fault. You are all such wonderful, beautiful, brilliant people and I feel like I've let you down. Please accept my most humble apologies, and this next chapter, which was **_**so frickin hard to write it's not even funny. **_**It's longer than usual, so hopefully that'll make up for it. Thanks for your time. Also thanks to feralfairy, for being the best beta anyone could ask for. Without all your wonderful feedback and support, I probably would've given up on this story a long time ago. Certainly I would never have been able to write this chapter. Thank you for listening and giving great advice, and not freaking out when **_**I **_**started freaking out. You provided a beacon of hope when I thought I was lost in a labryinth of deep dark tunnels. I love you.**

**And on to the (very very late) review replies.**

**Dreamcreator – thank you, my dear! ^_^ I hope your finals went well. I felt so guilty when you said "An update at last", cuz this one's kinda… astronomically late. Whoops. Anway, I hope you enjoy this one :)**

**Lola Kristy – Eric feels exactly the same way! Haha. I suppose it's my job to make you feel that way. And if I succeed, woohoo! Yes, I am waiting (not so patiently) for the next season. I can't wait for it, but at the same time, I'm really sad to see the Ponds go :(**

**crystal moon princess – oh my God that would be HILARIOUS. And I'm sorry that you had to wait this long :'( *****hugs***

**PrometheusDavid'sGirl – thank you so much! It really means a lot :D**

**doctorkaitlyn – 1) Oh. Um. Thank you. I have no experience whatsoever with schizophrenia – I got some of my info from a great book called **_**Rowan the Strange **_**by Julie Hearn, and the rest I just sort of made up as I went along. It's good to know it sounds legitimate! 2) Really? Thanks! I didn't really pay much attention to that line when I wrote it, but now I come to think of it, it is quite creepy O.o I think I may have actually scared myself… 3) Yay! :) I really need to get all of the previous sets. I only have (deep breath): the first three eps of Season Three, the first three of Season Four, all the Season Fives except Volume Three, and all of Season Six. Oh, and the last three of Season Two. Doomsday still sends me into floods of tears. I'll stop boring you now.**

**LifelessLil – thank you so much!**

**Good God, this was a long author's note. Anyway, let's get right back to the actual story.**

**Chapter Four **

Eric sits by the window and watches the raindrops chase each other down the glass.

There's a storm coming, riding on the backs of the northern winds, cradled in the soft peaks of the iron-grey clouds. Nothing moves outside but the water dripping softly down the leaves of the gnarled old apple tree. Time seems to stand still in the hospital as he waits for Charles to wake up.

His colleagues explained that it normally takes a few days for him to regain consciousness, but Eric finds it hard to trust them now. He doesn't talk to them, avoids their gazes in corridors, offering only monosyllables when they attempt to engage him in conversation. He still has to clench his fists to prevent the monster crouching in his chest from ripping their throats out.

He doesn't quite understand why he feels like this. He's never experienced this kind of anger before. He was always the quiet one in his family, preferring to curl up with a thick book rather than run around outside with the other boys. Some kids teased him for it in primary school, but then puberty hit and they stopped. After all, it's hard to really bully someone whose head looms so far above your own.

Charles mumbles something in his sleep, and shifts around before settling into what Eric assumes is a more comfortable position, nestled in a large cocoon of bedclothes. He looks so different when he sleeps, Eric thinks, stretching for the first time in three hours and wincing as his neck cracks. Younger. All the trenchlines of fear and pain simply disappear, melting away like the morning dew, leaving his face as smooth and pale as a field after the first snowfall.

Except for the two raw patches of blood-red skin where the electrodes dug into his temples.

A shiver skitters down Eric's spine at the memory. He still doesn't understand how the doctors could do that. Didn't they all swear to _do no harm_? They could blather on about safety and _for his own good_ until they were blue in the face, it didn't change the fact that they were causing pain, no, downright _agony _to a patient who trusted them to help him. He told them in no uncertain terms where they could stick their electroconvulsive therapy.

A few muted rays of dying sunlight force their way through the clouds and unravel like spools of ribbon across Charles's face. Eric contemplates getting up and closing the blinds, but he decides it's time for Charles to get up now. Also, he thinks he might be stuck in the chair.

Charles's eyes blink once, twice, then open wide and stare up at the blank ceiling.

"Charles?" Eric keeps his voice soft and gentle, as if speaking to a wild animal, hoping to deter any fear before it catches hold. Charles screws up his face against the light and crams his knuckles into his eyes like a child, yawning widely.

Then, his eyes turn to Eric, and grow round as saucers. His breath darts out in little pants, as if too is afraid to show its face.

"Charles, it's me, Doctor Lehnsherr."

XXX  
>The first thing Charles registers when he wakes up is the same old white ceiling, staring back at him. He's always hated that ceiling. It's just too clean, too bright, too absolutely perfectly <em>nothing <em>that it hurts his eyes to look at it. He's dreamt about getting some paints and huge long brushes and a stepladder and splattering colour everywhere, making this wall blue and this one red and that one green, filling the room up to the brim. Maybe he'd do little pictures of everything that made him happy, like Raven and science and sunshine, so that when he looked up he'd see them and he would drop off to sleep with a smile on his face. That hasn't happened in a long time.

But it's just an empty fantasy. They'd never let him do it, probably just say it'd _ruin the sterile environment _or something like that. It probably would, but where was the fun in that? Why do doctors always have to be so sensible?

The second thing that Charles sees when he wakes up is Doctor Lehnsherr, his long body folded like origami into a rickety hospital chair. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, contrasting starkly with his pale skin, and two-day stubble shadows his jawline. Charles rubs his eyes and stares at him in sleepy bemusement, wondering what he's doing here.

"Charles?"

And then it all comes flooding back – the voice, the hallucinations, the treatment, the pain. The old fear grips his heart in an icy cold claw, and although he has felt it too many times to count, it never loses its potency. His eyes flit around the room like frightened birds, searching desperately for a way to escape.

The doctor notices the change. "Charles, it's me, Doctor Lehnsherr." His face is filled with worry, and some rational part of Charles's mind says, _He thinks it's his fault. You have to tell him the truth. _But this part is tiny, and it is quickly swallowed up by the massive black hole of terror.

Charles jams his knees under his chin and wraps his skinny arms tight around himself, judders racking his small frame. Doctor Lehnsherr puts his hands out in what would normally be taken as a placating gesture, but Charles's diseased mind forces his body to flinch away from it. And this makes him feel more guilty, because he can see the tinge of hurt staining the doctor's blue-green eyes.

He clenches his hands tighter around his legs to stop them shaking.

"What's wrong, Charles? Why are you afraid?"

_I'm afraid of everything. _For a moment the image of a white feather, stark against the grey prejudice of the crowd, surfaces in the murky waters of his mind. But it is gone before he really registers its existence, and later he will not remember the soft, almost human touch on his shoulder.

XXX

Eric sighs inwardly. He had hoped, prayed that the treatment would have at least done some good. But his patient seems as fearful as ever, his eyes big and round, his fingers trembling as he wraps them around his knees. Again Eric wonders if he's doing that to keep himself from jolting into a hundred pieces.

_A white feather floats gently down from the open window to land on the headboard of the bed, brushing against Charles's shoulder. It is almost camouflaged against the sheets, but it has a silvery, ethereal quality, almost as if it is not quite there._

Eric blinks and shakes his head like a dog. His gaze flicks to the spot beside Charles's head, but there is nothing there. It was just a trick of the light.

Wasn't it?

Eric gathers himself together and focuses his attention back on his patient. His main objective right now is to calm him down enough so that they can talk. He can question his own sanity later.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions now. Is that alright?" Surprisingly, Charles nods, albeit anxiously; perhaps something happened in the split-second Eric looked away. "Good, good." Eric tries to smile gently, but his cheeks feel tight as they stretch, almost as if they don't want to move. "Can you tell me how you're feeling now?"

"I…" Charles's voice cracks, and he swallows before going on. "My head hurts."

Eric jots this down on his notepad. "Whereabouts does it hurt?"

"Here." Charles prods two fingers at the red patches on his temples, and Eric has to concentrate to keep himself from wincing. They do look painful.

"And is that normal after you have the treatment?"

"Ye-yes." There is a pause before he goes on, as if rushing to fill the silence before it's too late, "B-but not much as this."

Eric looks up, intrigued. "Really?"

"Yes. It… it hurts a lot." Charles still looks fearful, but his hands have stopped shaking, so Eric presses on.

"Can you describe the pain you're having now? How is it different to what you've felt before?"

"Before… it was like little pinpricks, inside here." Charles taps the side of his head. "But now… now it's more a sort of ache."

"Like a sledgehammer?" Eric's mother always told him that there were two types of headaches – needles and sledgehammers. That's how you can tell the difference between their causes.

"Y-yes."

"And what can you remember? Can you tell me your name?" _Please be able to_, Eric wills him silently. He's never dealt with amnesia before, and is not really sure where to begin.

"Yes, it's Charles Xavier."

"Good, that's good." Eric reaches into the pocket of his coat for his torch, taking comfort in the cool solidness of the metal against his fingers. "Now, I'm just going to have a look into your eyes and ears, and then I think we'll leave it for today. Is that alright?"

And then something very strange happens – Charles's mood changes instantly, as sudden as the sun coming out from behind the clouds. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, stretching out his legs and exhaling deeply, and offers Eric a small yet genuine smile. Eric is so surprised that he almost forgets what he's doing.

"Yes, that's fine." Eric pulls himself together and flicks the torch on, directing it at Charles's right ear. He keeps his movements slow and predictable, but Charles seems perfectly content. Odd. He could have sworn he was about to have a full-blown panic attack a few minutes ago. He wonders what caused the change.

The ears seem fine, and Charles's pupils dilate as expected, but Eric stays looking at the iris for more than strictly necessary. The colour and structure are just fascinating – they remind Eric of a picture he once saw of the surface of a distant icy blue planet, riddled with craters and hills and swirling winds. They are the sort of eyes you could fall into and never find your way back out, if you weren't careful.

Eric's finger reaches out automatically to snap the torch off, the noise jolting him out of his trance-like state. He collapses back into the chair. It creaks beneath his weight, but accepts him nonethless. "Well, that all looks fine to me. I'll be back tomorrow to talk a bit more, see if we can't find another solution to your… condition."

"What time is it?"

Erik checks the fobwatch he keeps on a chain in his waistcoat pocket, running his thumb over the worn brass. "Nearly eight. You've missed supper, I'm afraid. I have to go and eat now, but I'll be back tomorrow." He gets up and stretches, bones clicking in his back. He reminds himself never to spend close to forty-eight hours in a hard hospital chair again.

"Goodbye, Doctor Lehnsherr."

"Goodbye, Charles. I'll see you in the morning."

"See you," Charles echoes dully; a dusty record that keeps on turning long after the room has emptied.

Eric turns to go, but just as he reaches for the door handle, a sentence streams into his mind like a river flowing down a hillside. He starts and looks at Charles, but he has curled up like a cat under the sheets, staring out over the misty fields and rolling hills of England to a place that Eric can't see.

The voice is gone barely before he notices it, but the words remain for a long time afterwards, as if they are branded into the very fabric of his brain.

_Please don't leave me. I'm scared._

Eric shakes it off and goes back to his room.

**A/N: Again, I am so sorry. I promise the next update will be sooner (**_**you said that last time… **_**Yeah, I know, but this time I mean it). Until then, please read and review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello! Me again, reporting live from the crazy (read: startlingly chilled) city that is London during the Olympics. My absence can in part be blamed on that (HOLY CRAP THE OPENING CEREMONY I CAN'T) and mourning the loss of my iPod, left in the back of a cab. Hopefully the lost property office will find it, but I doubt it. Luckily I keep a lot of my ideas stored up here *****taps side of head* but it's still irritating. Sigh.**

**Sorry, I'll stop whining and get right down to the review replies. Forty reviews in total, people! Thank you all so much :)**

**Cheyo Motart – awww, thanks m'dear! However long you have to wait, I'll always carry on. Eventually.**

**lunar wolfe - thanks! I'm afraid I wasn't able to see the vid – could you possibly send me the link in a PM? I'm really interested to see what it is now :)**

**LifelessLil – I hope this doesn't count as forever… Hehe… *rubs back of neck sheepishly* thank you for your kind words!**

**curvesforever – Thank you! Ehehe, I feel the same way. I just want to give him a cuddle and make it okay for him. But you're right, that's best left to Erik… ;)**

**Again, thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback. You guys really make my day ^_^ ** **Hope you enjoy the show! **

**Chapter Five**

That's never happened to Charles before.

Ever.

In his entire life.

No one has ever made him feel that – dare he say it – _peaceful _before.

How did that even happen?

He could feel the poisonous whispers already flowing through his veins, was bracing himself for the voice to take over, but then –

But then Doctor Lehnsherr's mind just… opened up.

It unfolded like a picture book in front of his eyes, the hopes and fears and dreams and memories all spilling out into the room and filling it up with colour and noise and flavour. It felt like he was flying above a vast, wonderful country, with all the sights and sounds and smells of a childhood that he had never known.

But it was more than that. He's gone further into people's heads before, but even then he always retained a sense of detachment, never quite immersing himself in their world.

This time, he let the doctor's mind wash over him and draw him in, so rather than merely observing the action he actually took part in it. Therewas that birthday party with all his new friends from school, when Thomas ate so much he nearly exploded; here was his first day of university, lugging his huge suitcase up the steps of the train station; and further back, holding tight to a big hand as he skipped to catch up with Papa's long strides.

He was automatically drawn to the brightest corner of the man's memory system – a Hanukkah celebration when he was ten. He _felt_ the sheer happiness of the moment, and it filled him up to the brim until he couldn't help the small smile that crept up on his lips like a thief.

But then he goes away, and Charles is left once more in the too-white room with nothing but the voice to keep him company.

He turns his face to the window and dreams of flying.

XXX

Eric sits on the edge of his bed and sighs.

He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if anything he learnt at school is actually useful in the real world.

He slumps backwards onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling, running through the facts in his head. Paranoid schizophrenia – he said that he hears a voice, that it tells him to hurt people. Eric racks his brain, trying to remember what Professor Cairns told him about the illness. _Schizophrenia is classified as a mental disorder characterized by a breakdown of thought processes and by poor emotional responses. It most commonly manifests itself as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking_ – well, that's Charles all over. _Typically occurs in early adulthood…_ _Accompanied by significant social or occupational disfunction…_

Eric wonders if perhaps this has something to do with Charles's mother – from what he gathers, she was not the most loving of parents. So, a neglectful mother, leading to abandonment issues in later life. But that wouldn't be enough to provoke assault, would it? There has to be something more, something staring him right in the face…

Eric runs his hands through his hair and down his face, coming to rest at his jawline. _Of course._

He is such an idiot.

The official medical report of the crime said that the attack on Kurt Marko had been unprovoked. But schizophrenia rarely occurs without help. It needs some sort of catalyst to bring it to the surface.

What if it was just revenge for years of abuse?  
>Charles's parents split up when he was ten, and the former Mrs Xavier remarried soon afterwards. But then she died, leaving Charles and his little sister in the care – more <em>at the mercy <em>– of Kurt Marko and his son, Cain.

It's a shot in the dark, of course, but it might just be right. The signs are all there – the way Charles's eyes widened slightly when Eric brought up his stepfather, the web of thin white lines criss-crossing his wrists that look suspiciously like whip scars…

Eric slaps himself on the forehead. He is so _stupid_.

Charles Xavier was abused by his stepfather for God knows how long before he finally snapped and killed him.

Or, at least, that's Eric's theory. He could be wrong, but he really doesn't see any other cause for the problem.

Now he just has to get Charles to admit it.

And then, of course, there is the white feather, and what Charles said just before he left the room –

No, that wasn't real. He imagined it. It was just his overworked brain making things up.

At least, that is what he tells himself.

XXX

It starts off innocently enough. He's wandering through the gardens of the university, stopping now and then to note down the different types of plants and insects he spots. Papa always says to write down everything you observe – it might come in useful some day.

And yet, as always, he is never free of that devil whispering on his shoulder.

_Papa's not here anymore, is he?_

No. No, he is, look, he's over there, he's just coming out of the science block, he's waiting for me.

_Papa left. He left you and Mother and Raven, and he's never coming back._

He left? No, Papa would never do that. He loves us very much, he says it every day -

_Are you really so naïve as to think that he was telling the truth?_

I – I don't - He's there –

_When are you going to open your eyes and realise that he's gone?_

He loves us, you'll see. Look, he's coming over here now –

_That's not Papa._

Yes, yes it is –

_Then why is he undoing his belt?_

I… I don't…

_He's getting closer…_

Papa? Papa, what are you doing? I'm sorry if I made you angry, please don't hit me, Papa –

_How many times do I have to tell you that that's not Papa?!_

No, please, Papa!

"_Papa!_" The last word is screamed out into the cool darkness of the summer night, and with it comes Charles, jolting back to reality, the harsh colours of the nightmare still staining his vision.

He blinks a few times, and the image fades along with the dream. Already he is struggling to remember exactly what he was afraid of.

It doesn't take a genius to guess, though.

He looks around the deathly silent room, bleached white by the moonlight, a shiver skittering down his spine. He doesn't seem to have woken anyone, but he does a quick check anyway, just to be sure. He closes his eyes and listens hard for the sleeping minds of the hospital staff.

The orderly on duty first – slumped in his chair at the end of the corridor, completely and utterly dead to the world. Then the nurse at the opposite end; she's not asleep yet, but judging by the novel clutched in one hand, she will be soon. One by one he passes over the doctors and nurses, pausing a moment at each to observe their dreams. Some are happy – winning the World Cup, or meeting their heroes. Some are embarrassing – turning up for an exam in their underwear, or being asked to play an instrument they've never even touched before in the London Philarmonic Orchestra. And some are just bizarre – finding out they have the ability to fly, only to come crashing back down like Icarus tumbling into the sea.

He lingers for a while in Doctor Lehnsherr's mind. He is sailing the ocean blue in a pea-green boat, accompanied by an owl and a pussycat. Charles is pleasantly surprised; he has always loved that poem.

He reluctantly backs out of the man's head, quietly closing the metaphorical door shut behind him. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and sits in the middle of the bed, his legs crossed like a child waiting for a bedtime story. He doesn't want to go back to sleep. He can feel Kurt lingering at the back of his mind like a malignant ghost, just waiting for his chance to pounce again.

Suddenly, the seed of an idea is planted in his head.

Could he?

No, it's silly. He'd be caught for sure.

No harm in trying…

Yes, there is. You'll be punished, you know you will.

He debates with himself for a good five minutes before he finally reaches a decision. The linoleum floor feels sticky under his bare feet as he carefully swings his legs off the bed and pads towards the door. He reaches for the handle, fully expecting it to be locked tight, like it always is.

It turns easily in his hand and the door swings open.

Charles stands there, speechless, before the soft _thunk _of the door hitting the opposite wall brings him back to himself. How – how did that – his room locked every night, _every night _ -

A flicker of something runs across his subconscious, like someone cautiously prodding a finger into his mind. He ignores it.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and steps through the doorway into the corridor, blinking in the too-bright light. The nurse isn't asleep yet, but he soon rectifies that with a hand in front of her face and a soft word whispered in her ear.

The cowardly part of his brain worries that he shouldn't be doing this, _you'll get caught_, _they'll electrify you again, and then they'll find out about what you can do and send you to a laboratory and do experiments on you_, but he tells it to shut up and slips down the stairs, silent as a shadow.

As his toes sink into the wet grass, he wonders idly why he suddenly feels so much braver than before. Three days ago, he'd've never dreamed of setting foot outside his _room_, let alone properly outside.

But what a wonderful place outside is. The sky stretches far above him, all the way from one horizon to the other, stuffed full of stars. It's like someone spread millions of little diamonds across a black velvet cloak, swirling them around in beautiful patterns until they formed constellations. There's Orion, with his belt of three, and Taurus the great bull, and over there, the Plough. He follows the pointing line of its curved end to Polaris, the great North Star, burning bright and proud amid its brothers and sisters.

His father once told him that the light of the stars takes hundreds of years to reach us, so if anyone looked at the Earth from another planet, they'd see things that have already happened. And this works both ways – the little pinpricks of light he's seeing now could have exploded centuries ago, and he wouldn't know until the light completed its long journey and relayed the message.

He sits down, his back against the gnarled old apple tree, and stares up at a constellation that's dying in a corner of the sky.

**A/N: By the way, if anyone reading this has any experience with schizophrenia or any kind of mental illness, please feel absolutely and utterly free to tell me if I'm getting anything wrong or offending you in any way. As I think I've mentioned, I am a complete amateur, so I've probably made a few mistakes along the way. **

**Thank you for reading and good night!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: So, the Olympics are over, and London goes back to normal. Right? Wrong. It's frickin boiling here. It's like the city is trapped in a perpetual blush after being the centre of the world for two weeks. Sheesh. Get a grip, man.**

**Oh, and there's that legacy thing too. Pff, who cares about it?**

**On a side note, I read a rather wonderful Inception story describing (among other things) London beautifully. The author just captured the essence of this place in less than a paragraph. Man, I wish I could write like that. I will provide a linky thing. Soon…**

**Review replies:**

**paradise - Why, thank you my good man (lady/other/thing…?) :)**

**curvesforever – I like it too XD I just think it's nicer to do it this way. I feel the same when I see someone's put their reply to me in their story. Besides, if I do it in PMs I forget who I have or have not replied to :/ Oh, you don't have to be sorry for the ramble! It was a rather pleasant ramble :) Thank you so much for your kind words!**

**Dplover13 – Thanks! **

**Y'know, I think my author's notes are getting steadily smaller (coughhintcough). **

**Allons-y, as David Tennant would say.**

**Update: I really shouldn't do my author's notes before I do the actual chapter. I long for the days when it was sunny. Now it's bloody cold.**

**Again, I'm so sorry for the wait. I would waffle on about school and stuff, but you've heard it all before. **

**As always, deepest gratitude to feralfairy. I'm gonna run out of adjectives to describe your brilliance pretty soon. Love you, man.**

**Chapter Six **

The soft cooing of a wood pigeon gently nudges Eric awake.  
>He blinks, rubbing the scraps of sleep from his eyes as he looks around his tiny room. The dawn is just breaking over the edge of the world, pale fingers of light painting the bellies of the clouds in shades of yellow and orange and burning gold - a dusty echo of the fire that threw shadows across the furniture last night.<br>His gaze flickers to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Half past six. For a moment a memory stirs in the sleep-fuddled corners of his mind: muddy boots, heavy rifle, guard duty with his partner bantering away beside him. But then it's gone, as swiftly as the nightingale exchanges places with the skylark.  
>He dresses slowly, shrugging on his white coat with its three ballpoint pens tucked neatly into the breast pocket. They remind him of Charles, and his own sudden realisation yesterday.<br>Eric hasn't had much experience with childhood mistreatment - his own parents were loving and kind, and he never felt in any way threatened by them. So he's a little uncomfortable attempting to broach the subject. Should he beat around the bush a little, ease Charles into it? Or just dive straight in there? Subtlety was never his strong suit.  
>Well. He's got plenty of time to work over the details. It is only - he checks his pocket watch - seven o'clock. Best to let Charles sleep for now. Eric's mother always said that rest was the best medicine.<p>

He's still got at least an hour and a half before the orderlies start to get up. He could go down to the canteen and have a nose around, try to sort some breakfast out, but it probably won't be open, and besides, he's not particularly hungry.  
>He leaves his room and creeps down the spiral staircase, careful to avoid the creaky second step. The air is unnaturally still around him, like the calm before a storm. He wonders what kind of tempest it will be.<br>For some reason, he is drawn to the enormous garden. The grass is wet with dew, and leaves tiny patches of moisture on his trousers. Spring has come late this year - the trees' buds are only just beginning to poke out their delicate heads, and the flowerbeds are nests of writhing green shoots, filled with all the promise of a new year.  
>He stays like that, watching the sun haul itself slowly up onto the shoulders of the sky, until a sharp cry pierces through his sleepy consciousness.<br>XXX  
>"Get up, freak."<br>A large hand jolts Charles roughly awake. He jerks upwards, blinking in the too-bright sunlight. The orderly is looming over him, a sneer of contempt twisting at the corner of his mouth.  
>"I said get up," he hisses, his eyes glittering with malice, grabbing Charles by the collar of his pyjamas and pulling him to his feet. "I've been looking for you for the past hour. How'd you escape, eh? Pick the lock? Yeah, I bet you did. That innocent little victim thing might work on the new lad, but it sure as hell won't fool me." He pinches the soft skin of Charles's neck, hard, and he cries out in pain. "Yeah, that's right. Go crying back to your precious Doctor Lehnsherr. That's all you're good for. No wonder your daddy fucked off and left. Probably couldn't bear having to look at you every day."<br>Hit him, the voice whispers quietly, but it's always quiet at first. Charles clenches his fists tightly in a bid to keep it locked tight, but he can feel it, swelling like a balloon in his chest, pushing its way up his throat -  
>"Is everything alright, Charles?"<br>And, again, it's like his presence is some sort of antidote to the poison running through his veins. Charles swallows thickly, the muscles in his throat struggling to move around what feels like a golf ball, and bobs his head like a seagull. He feels weak and shaky, like he's just run a marathon on an empty stomach. Doctor Lehnsherr smiles at him kindly.  
>"I was just, erm, taking Mr Xavier here back to his room. He knows he's not supposed to go outside without supervision, don't you? You naughty boy." The orderly taps him on the temple mock-playfully; a prequel to the beating that will undoubtedly come later.<br>"It's quite alright. I think I can get him back in one piece."  
>"Oh." The man seems shocked - his mouth opens and closes several times without making a sound, and Charles is reminded of a picture he once saw in one of his father's books of a rather unattractive fish. "I... I'll just be off, then."<br>"Yes, I'm sure you must have other patients to see to." Is Charles imagining it, or is there a hint of a hard edge to Doctor Lehnsherr's green-blue eyes?

The orderly stumbles off towards the hospital, looking a little dazed. Charles thinks he catches the hint of a smile dancing at the corner of Doctor Lehnsherr's mouth before he schools his face into a mask of quiet professionalism.  
>"Come on, Charles. Let's get you back inside. You must be freezing."<br>"Oh. Um. Yes, I suppose." He looks down and notices that his feet are soaking wet, the veins spreading like blue branches across his pale skin. He presses a hand to his cheek, and is surprised to discover that it is ice cold.  
>Doctor Lehnsherr is looking at him curiously in that way that doctors have, so he quickly makes for the hospital, nearly tripping over his pyjamas in his haste.<br>XXX  
>When they get back to Charles's room, the chair is gone.<p>

Eric hovers awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, biting his lip. Who the hell took away his chair? Granted, it wasn't exactly the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world – he suspects he would've gotten arthiritis at some point in the near future – but at least it was _there_. Now where's he supposed to sit?

"You can –" Charles gestures to the expanse of bed not taken up by himself. "I mean, if you want to – "

"Oh. Thank you." Eric tentatively lowers himself down onto the edge of the bed, taking care not to jolt his patient. He smoothes his hands over the creases in his trousers, then says, "Why did you do it?"

"I..." Charles stops, swallows, and tries again, looking almost exactly like a child admitting to a crime. "I wanted to see the stars."

Eric falters for a minute, toys with the idea of brushing it off without reprimand, of not having to see the disappointment in Charles's eyes. But he pushes his heart down into his chest and lets his head take over the controls.

"But you know you're not allowed out without supervision."

Charles inhales deeply, and Eric fancies he can see his lungs inflating like balloons beneath his pale skin. "Yes."

"And you know you shouldn't do it again."

"Yes."

"Are you going to do it again?"

Charles quirks an eyebrow, a glint of something like amusement in his eyes. "Probably."

They sit there for a moment, the silence stretching endlessly between them, before Eric cracks and bursts out laughing.

**A/N: Next chappie will be up… soon. Promise. Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you that I'm on tumblr now (tumblr is cool). URL's insertfandomquotehere. It's a pretty average little blog, but I'd appreciate it if you could check it out. Shameless self promotion…**

**Anyway, til next time, dear readers. Thanks for sticking with me, despite sporadic (coughnevercough) updates and frankly mediocre writing. Feel free to leave a review if you hated (or loved) it. Cheerio for now.**


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